bakerstreet | pic prompts.

Arthur shifting was still a little eerie to watch, but nothing like the first time. It looked smoother now, despite the jutting, crunching, twisting way Arthur moved between one form to the other. John turned his head to give Arthur a bit of modesty, despite the fact that there wasn't anything there that he hadn't already seen. It was only polite.

He only realized belatedly that he'd left his cigarettes on the porch, and wished he had the forethought to bring them with him when they came in earlier. Smoking kept him focused, kept him from being stressed. This was far too important to excuse himself to go get them, however, and he simply dropped one leg before him as he looked at Arthur once he had a fur over him.

"Yeah?" It was his way of coaxing more out of Arthur, non-invasive, engaged despite the abbreviated way of speaking.

As if reading John's mind, Arthur reached over and fumbled through his satchel. He pulled out his cigarettes, offering him one and sticking another between his lips before finding a book of matches.

He took a long, deep breath, the taste of the nicotine familiar but offering none of the benefit of calming his nerves or the like anymore.

"I don't know, not sure what you want me to say. Shit was a shit experience I can't get out of my head, yet apart from the memories, the dreams all escape me" he said.

Thank God for shared habits. John nodded his thanks and leaned forward to use the same match to light his, then leaned back with an exhale of smoke through his nose, eyes fluttering closed. The motions alone calmed and helped John, but the nicotine helped immensely to focus him.

"You been through a lot of shit this year, Arthur." Not that he particularly hadn't, and even though it was a subconscious gesture on his part, he reached up to rub his still-new scars with his free hand. "Too much." He looked up and out the window, himself, taking another drag of his cigarette.

"You'n me both. Dreams don't stay, they don't let themselves be known, all they do is leave you wound tight and hurt, don't even do any good like give you a bolt from the blue idea. Don't know what fancy moron thought that bullshit up, but it ain't ever happened for me. Doubt it does for anyone."

Arthur did catch him rubbing his scars but said nothing of it. Talk about things that felt like a lifetime ago and yet so near he felt like he could touch them. The icy cold of the mountains and the howl of the wolves as they called out for John, finding his poor horse torn to shreds and fearing he might have been dragged off.

Those moments still sometimes crawled into his thoughts, what if they’d found John dead...

But this was different. Because that had been a what if. This reoccurring absolute terror he felt, of clawing his way out of his own grave and finding himself utterly alone had its grip on him in a way unlike anything he’d ever experienced, had indeed happened. The nightmare itself faded into obscurity, but he was always brought back and reminded of the memories when he thought for sure he’d begun to forget.

Charles helped him forget...

“We all been through a lot.” He said simply.

John nodded to that. "It ain't gonna happen again, nothin' even close will. You got me... us. You got us." He pointedly refused eye contact then, looking with a scowl out the window.

He decided he wouldn't keep harping on the point that Arthur had been through too much, it wouldn't make the pain or terror go away; it never helped him when folks told him that he'd been through hell and survived. In fact, it only fucked him up more.

"Can't mend up what's happened, but we got an actual life ahead of us. All I saw ahead of us after Blackwater was more misery, but now..." He finally turned back to look at Arthur, hope briefly flashing on his face. "We got a real chance. One I ain't ever actually expected."

Frankly, if he was being more open, he'd have said he didn't believe a damn thing that had happened since the mountain. It all felt like a dream in itself. Not a particularly good one for most of it, but the land, the buildings, the trees, the horses, all of it. All of it felt simultaneously raw and real, but surreal and unbelievable. He'd never lived in a house, and now he was sitting in Arthur's room. In his house.

"The pretty words actually came to somethin'."

Arthur smiled a little at that. Affectionate of John to say that. He gave him a nudge before taking a drag on his cigarette, listening to him still.

He saw that hope in him, hope of watching his son grow up while he and Abigail grew old and died of natural causes, not shot to hell and buried someplace they couldn't visit. Barring anyone getting sick or suffering a stupid injury, they'd all see the year out and into a new century, something that boggled his mind.

But therein lay the problem. Eventually everyone would...

He sighed and knocked his head lightly against the wall. He needed to think more short term and stop thinking about the possibility that he'd become something like MacDougall when everyone here was dead and gone.

The nudge was returned quickly with a lopsided smile, albeit one that barely registered. John turned when he heard Arthur's head hit the wall, however, and gave him a look. "You're overthinkin' again."

Not that he knew anything about overthink. Nothing at all. It wasn't like he spent much of his waking time in his own head.

Though eventually something came to him. He'd been meaning to ask since before the man left, but he didn't feel it was prudent, or any of his business, but now he was curious.

"So what's it between you and Charles?"

Arthur smiled wryly and nodded. Yea he was overthinking. Needed to stop it, especially when they had problems here and now. Worrying about ten or fifteen or even twenty years down the line wasn't good for anyone, let alone himself.

He took another drag on his cigarette, looking at John, maybe a little too sharply at that. He played it off, "What you mean between me and Charles?" he asked "Mean the whole tent sharin' thing?" he shrugged again. "Ain't nothin, just like the quiet of him when my head is buzzin' uncomfortably."

John sighed and shook his head. He knew Arthur was skirting around something. He'd seen the fondness with which they said goodbye. He noticed the way they reacted to each other. Even though he was quiet, and contemplative, and not really interactive with many folks in the gang, John still noticed. He was perceptive in a way that only a kid who'd lived in a city, surrounded by people who would easily exploit him if they had a chance, could be.

"Okay, Arthur." Those two words were heavy with implication, but he wasn't going to pry. Again, it was none of his business.

Arthur was glad he didn't pry. He and John told one another a lot, especially before he left, but some things he wasn't ready for even him to voice aloud.

The night wind shifted and he could smell the peach orchards. He snuffed out his cigarette in a tin can he kept his butts in, and breathed deep the evening scents. Along with the peaches he could also smell a rabbit a few yards away and the fainter scent of deer, probably grazing in the tree line.

For all the worries this new ability had brought, the perks had opened up his world like never before.

John put his own cigarette out shortly after, having to reach for the can to do so, but afterwards, he bumped his shoulder against Arthur's. "Even if you ain't able to sleep, get some rest." He shuffled up to his feet and looked down at Arthur with a pointed look, a look of 'you'd better', before he reached down, pushed Arthur's head to one side, just to be a bit of an ass, and then slipped to the door. "Write or somethin'." That man's journal kept him sane, he thought.

As he walked across the house to join Abigail in bed, he hoped Arthur would take his advice. This restless shit was doing Arthur no favors.

Arthur smacked John's leg when he shoved his head but nodded. "G'night" he bid him, glad for the man's company and quiet on certain matters he might be catching onto.

He watched the night for awhile before lighting his lantern and taking his advice with some writing and sketching.

Arthur must have dozed off at some point again because he was startled awake by the crow of the rooster. He got up, dressed, and went into the kitchen to see if there was any coffee left.

Days went by fairly smoothly, John being told that with as much work as he was putting in that he really ought to give himselfmore time to rest. He appreciated the offer Hosea gave him, but he needed to keep himself busy. It was always like that. He still went to town in the morning, bringing Jack with to go play in the yard of the church, and sneak in during sessions of school to learn - not something John had expected, but still wasn't upset about - and setting to the tasks of firewood and training the horses. Abigail picked Jack up in the afternoons after her new job in town cut out; she'd found a simple job as a bar maid, sharp and rude as ever to men who got handsy with her, but genial and pleasant to those who showed her respect.

Fall was setting in quickly, the aspens and crabapple trees that lined the property took up their vibrant yellows and oranges to replace the lush green. The last of the peaches had been picked and canned, or baked into desserts which were sold in the general store in town, and the new pack of horses were finally settled enough that they didn't rear our kick when they were approached.

As far as Dutch could see, from the easy rhythm that the ranch have to life, things were going well. The women found work, the men took to tending the property, and he oversaw it all, while lending a hand when it was necessary. He was the one who kept track of the money as always, setting aside much of it in an account under his name. He found it ironic that not too long ago, banks were for robbing, not for saving, but he figured it was safer than stashing it all under his floorboards.

Dutch and Hosea were back to being close as ever, bosom pals which were more relaxed than John had seen them since the gang started growing. Dutch's restlessness didn't disappear entirely, but he was going to see this through at least for a year, he decided.

Then one day, he told everyone they'd be having supper all together, volunteering the Marston dining room as the place to hold the meeting. He also had John and Arthur haul in a long, large, curved piece of lumber that was clearly to go over as an arch to the entrance of the ranch.

When everyone was in, he started.
"First, I would like to propose a toast to the successful first two months of this new home for us all. We've all seen hell and hardship. All of us put our entire lives into this grand dream. A dream we made real with hard work, effort, and fearlessness. I'm so proud of you all. Each one of my sons, my girls, even little Jackie. You've done more than was asked, and put in more than your share, all of you, and we have founded a fine home.

"Now is the time we must choose a name for our little slice of heaven. Now, were it up to me, I'd be namin' it Pennsylvania's Pride, but luckily for all of us, it ain't up to me. I want you all to share your ideas, and I know you all got 'em, to name this colossal chunk of land."

Then he raised a glass. "To home!" Which got a chorus of the same from the group.

Edited (if i ever tag anything and words aren't the right words? it's from my phone.) 2021-08-22 03:44 (UTC)

Slowly the once barren and dilapidated property was coming together. The secondary stable was up, the border fence now ringed the whole place, with the apple and cherry tree saplings the newest additions. Next spring they'd till the earth for gardens and fields.

They had all the livestock they'd initially wanted, and duties were divided well amongst them to take care of them all. Bill was gone but Lenny and Pearson remained as promised.

A couple weeks after his leaving, a letter arrived from Charles. He spoke of the Wapiti, their situation with the government quickly going downhill despite all efforts to keep the peace. They were being starved and supplies diverted or halted for whatever damned reason, leaving many sick and hungry. He even mentioned he'd met Evelyn Miller-Dutch's poetic hero-who was helping aid the chief and his son. Times like this he noted he wished some of the gang were there to help but knew even with them there, was only so much they could do. Unfortunately his own time with them would remain, possibly until the spring when the tribe could move further north, into Canada. If they could move sooner, then perhaps he'd see the gang again before the first snow, but it was difficult to say.

He'd not seen Mrs. Adler yet though at the time of his letter he had heard a woman fitting her description was in Valentine and intended on visiting to see if he could get in touch with her. He still spotted Pinkertons here and there but it seemed their numbers had dwindled, at least where he was situated. Charles noted he'd write again as soon as he could.

Arthur, like John, kept himself busy, though for different reasons. Less for the sake of it and more to keep his mind off certain things. Since moving into the house with the Marstons, his sleep issues had subsided quite a lot, perhaps in part to having a roof over his head or John's occasional peek in on him. But in any case, he was doing better in that regard, though he did miss Charles, for reasons he'd never say aloud. With construction all completed, he spent a good deal of time with Kieran, training the new horses, learning their personalities and setting up a ledger of sorts to figure out which-both their original stock and the new mustangs-would pair well together come spring. Arthur and John made a trek back to Pocatello and managed to get two handsome stallion drafts, expensive but they were well behaved and had good breeding in them which meant their drafts would in turn do well.

The gang was about half the size it once was, but they still filled the Marston's dining room to bursting. As they drank and ate, chatter erupted about what they should call the place. Arthur gave John a knowing look as they'd often laughed about it all but now they were serious. One name that stuck with them during those discussions didn't sound so bad at all, and so, he decided to voice it.

"John and I thought about the name Locksley Ranch, after Robin of Locksley." Arthur said to Dutch, hoping he didn't need to clarify why. Their original intent, to help the needy and screw the law much like Robin Hood did, was the foundation of the gang and seemed fitting to be called something akin to it.

Dutch's brows raised with the boys' choice for a name, having heard them banter names back and forth between them as they worked together, almost like a game between them. It had kept their minds busy, he figured, and it seemed to him like John and Arthur's relationship had finally begun mending after the rift had been opened up by John's disappearance.

"Locksley Ranch," he repeated, then nodded, slowly at first as he thought it over, then with a definitive nod, he agreed. "That is precisely the kind of name we been needin', to get back to what we're all about. Good job, gentlemen."

It was official from that point on. The sign that had been brought in was carved with the names of the proprietors of the land on the back, each member of their family allowed to chip their names in, then the name of the ranch itself was penciled in by Hosea, whose hand was steady and writing impeccable. The rest of it, the carving and painting, was handled by Lenny and Karen the next day.

That was the morning that John went to town and was loading up hay and grain into the wagon when he heard something that made a prickling chill of nerves run up his spine. He overheard that a new gang had come rolling into the area. The O... Oh somethings, a rowdy, horrible bunch of roadside bandits and train robbers, that had been living southeast of there for a while.

"Fuck me," he whispered to himself, and rode back to the ranch. When he returned, he tasked Kieran to unload the wagon and went to find Arthur first, planning to take this to Dutch next.

He got the older man's attention with a sharp, "Arthur." He walked up to him and nodded towards Dutch and Hosea's cabin. "Bad news."

Arthur was in the paddock with the foal they'd caught with the herd, the little filly having grown so much since being brought to the ranch and just as feisty as her sire, Khan.

He chased her about, playing with her as her mother looked on, grazing not far away, Tilly looking on too and laughing as Arthur slid on a patch of mud but kept his balance before keeping after the filly.

He came to a stop at John's sharp tone. At the look, he knew it was serious so he let Tilly handle putting their youngest member away while he went up to the younger man. "What's goin' on?" he asked

John led the way, not too quickly to Dutch's cabin. "Folks in town's been sayin' the O'Driscolls are up this way, robbin' folk." He didn't beat around the bush, say more than he needed to. This was a problem, a huge one if they showed up in their part of the country. Especially when there was still the high possibility that Dutch wouldn't take too well to the idea of having to share space with them. He knew Dutch. He knew that if he found out any other way but by himself and Arthur, there'd be hellfire.

He was pretty sure there'd be hellfire anyway, but he didn't express that, save for a grim scowl on his face. He stopped halfway between the stables and Dutch's cabin, and looked over his shoulder at the road. "Should we check it out before we tell 'im? Would save us a hell of a lot of trouble if we know for a fact Colm ain't around and it's just his lackeys."

Arthur listened, his blood running cold at the news. He'd thought they'd have been a long way from O'Driscolls and if it was them, it would beg the question why had they come up this way. Colm spread his gang far but never like this. Was he looking for something, or maybe someone? Maybe Dutch?

He looked to the cabin then shook his head, "We go find out first if its O'Driscolls for sure, no use." he said and they headed to the stables to get mounted up, telling Kieran that if anyone asked, they were looking into a possible gang moving in nearby, and nothing more.

Tight lipped in seriousness, John went to the house to fetch their weapons, fixing his belt on before walking out to the stables, handing Arthur's belt and rifle to him before getting the horse ready and mounting up, his own rifle and repeater on his back. "Sonofabitch, I knew we wasn't gettin' away scot free." He led the way, remembering that the conversation he'd overheard had told him they were heading north from Raft River, south of Fairview.

He really didn't like where this was headed. Did these sonsofbitches come west to find them? And if they did, what did that say about Mrs. Adler? Was she not far behind? He knew that if she was alive, there was no way that she'd let these slimy bastards get away. Was Colm aware that they were up here? If Colm knew, how far would the Pinkertons be behind them?

Paranoia crept into his bones, and John's shoulders tightened like they hadn't been in months.

"Take it easy now" Arthur assured him as they rode out "If it is the O'Driscolls, we grab one and find out what's going on, where Colm is and why they're up here." he said, keeping a level head.

Felt like it'd been awhile since they had to drag in the old way of doing things, but like riding horse after a long break, once you got on you knew how to do it again.

He let John lead the way, keeping his weapons holstered in the event they met anyone from town on the road who knew them. Couldn't look like bandits themselves.

John wasn't exactly happy that they had to pause their little pleasant lives for this absolute bullshit, but at least they had a head's up. Riding through town, they got no looks - John got a couple greetings, which he nodded in response. Luckily, Abigail's work wasn't through the main road of town, so he didn't have to worry about her knowing that they were on their way out to do something about the situation, at least until she got back home.

Home wasn't going to be ruined by the likes of Colm and his funny little band of trash. He wouldn't have it.

Though Arthur's words did, in their way, comfort him. "Easy as ever," he sarcastically remarked, picking up the pace of Peggy's trot to a gallop once they cleared the town. "They said they was down this way, doin' what they do." And, even putting aside the bitter blood between their gang and the O'Driscolls, John found their band far sloppier, far more reckless than anyone in their gang, past or present. Even Bill had more decorum and presence of mind than these madmen.

It didn't take very long until John slowed Peggy down to a standstill, seeing a stopped coach before them in the distance on the road and heard a gunshot. He reached over and pulled out his binoculars, getting a better view.

Flashes of green in the clothes gave them away. "That's them all right. Whaddya think? Let 'em break off from the coach n'catch 'em on their ways back to camp?"

Arthur greeted folk pleasantly as well as they made their way through town, keeping calm and collected outwardly. Though knew if these were O'Driscolls, they could have serious problems.

They'd worked so hard, every one of them, and he'd sacrificed everything. He'd not have it all go to shit because of these bastards.

He spotted the coach and took out his own binoculars to have a look. Unfortunately their fears had been realized. It was O'Driscolls for sure.

"Yea let's get'em when they head back to wherever they've holed up." he agreed, putting his lens away. "Remember to leave one alive though, have to confirm whether Colm is up here too and what the hell they're up to."

"Right." Tucking his binoculars back into the saddlebags, John waited for them to ride away from the coach while Peggy tap-danced impatiently on the center of the road. He leaned forward to pat her neck, telling her to be patient. He may have been telling himself that, too.

Once the O'Driscolls broke off from the coach, they all went the same direction, like idiots might. They really weren't thinking they'd get caught if they stuck together like that? Whatever, it wasn't time to analyze the amateur moves of the other gang, it was time to take them out. "The one on the palomino lives," He said to Arthur, flipping the snap of his holster open as he spurred Peggy into motion again. The horse was fast, far faster than Old Boy could be. Of course, she was absolutely no Edelweiss or Count, but she could haul.

Pulling his revolver out, he quickly made calculations for angle, speed, wind, and distance, faster than he ever did when he was hunting. There was a strange distinction, a cognitive dissonance between hunting and killing in his mind. It was natural for John to slip back into a killer's mindset, to be able to line up several shots before taking them. As he focused on his heartbeat, he fired, two of the five men got shot in their backs as he and Arthur rode up on them.

Arthur nodded, seeing the determination in John he'd not seen in some time. He wanted their little paradise to remain so as much as he did. To protect his family.

How far they'd all come.

He took out his rifle, waited for John to call it, and took the shot. A third man, still reeling from the gunshots into his buddies, was struck off his horse and was dead before he hit the ground. A second shot rang out and Arthur hit the remaining target in the shoulder, then again in the side. His horse dragged him by the stirrups for several yards before getting caught in the brush.

Arthur went after him, made sure he was dead before they took off after the O'Driscoll they wanted taken alive. He holstered his rifle and took out his lasso, a moment of Deja vu coming over him as he recalled doing this with Kieran oh so long ago, only this guy was older and no horse caretaker.

There was more than determination within John at that moment. He was full of fury, of a dangerous sort of protectiveness, when he made sure the men he'd shot were good and dead, one slumped forward on his horse, and the other toppled into the grass. He turned Peggy around and raced behind Arthur, gun still at the ready to hobble the bastard if he tried to escape once Arthur had him lassoed.

There was a desire to loot the bastards' bodies, a kneejerk thought that always came with gunning someone down. It was what he was taught to do, what he was told he had to do, to survive. Survival mode had kicked in about the time he heard the people in town talking about the rival gang, and wasn't about to stop until they saw this through.

Once they flanked the O'Driscoll, John's malicious tone rang out. "C'MERE, WE JUST WANNA HAVE A LITTLE TALK." It was obvious from his shout that there was no desire to just talk.

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we can jump if you want to

Sounds fantastic!

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